Such a Dance (2 page)

“I’m sorry,” Julian said softly, as if maybe he wasn’t sure about that, either. “I do care about you. I won’t come after you. If after tonight we don’t see each other, I hope that things go well for you. Maybe I’ll come see that show of yours sometime.”

“Sure. It’s very good. Or so I’ve been told.” Eddie wasn’t sure how the usual crowd at the James Theater would deal with a man like Julian.

“I’m sure that you are perfectly marvelous in it.” Julian reached over and caressed Eddie’s hair. He smiled affectionately. “But if I don’t see you, good luck.”

“You too.”

“I don’t need luck. I make my own.” Julian grinned. “Perhaps you would like one last tussle with me. Free of charge.”

When Julian reached for Eddie, Eddie let himself be pulled into those long arms. He wasn’t feeling especially affectionate. If anything, the encounter felt more than anything like a good-bye. Would he ever see Julian again? He wondered as they moved and moaned and sweated together, and when Julian cried out at the end, something in Eddie’s heart closed off.

Eddie got up afterward and went to the restroom. On his way, he left Julian’s fee on the dresser. When he returned to the bedroom, Julian was gone and so was the money. Just as well, Eddie thought, returning to bed. The sheets smelled like sex and Julian, and it was enough to let Eddie sink into sleep.

“Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out”

I
n 1922, three important things had happened to Lane Carillo: he got engaged, he broke his engagement, and he ran off to New York with his bride’s brother.

They were still in New York eight months later when shame and guilt finally drove Scott off the side of the Brooklyn Bridge. And it was the moment Lane saw the police drag Scott’s bloated, lifeless body out of the East River that confirmed for him what he already suspected: he’d never be able to go home again. The scandal was bad enough, but he could not face his family now that he had essentially killed Scott.

The next year had been equally momentous. In his numb haze, he’d reached out to a cousin for a job, any job, and he’d been given a gun and enough money to buy a new suit. It was later that year that Jimmy Ribello had pulled a gun on Lane and told him a faggot had no place in the family business.

That was the first and last time a member of the family challenged Lane’s masculinity. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could still see Ribello’s blood pooling on the floor.

Now he sat at a corner table at Lenny’s, a restaurant on Broadway near Times Square that was something of an art deco explosion on the inside, and he contemplated the bowl of soup before him as he listened to conversation buzzing through the dining room. David Epstein held court at the table in the opposite corner. Lane kept an eye on Epstein as he carried on meetings, but tried to focus more on his soup.

Mickey Maroni slid into the chair across from Lane. “I need fifty simoleons.”

Lane rolled his eyes. “What for?”

Mickey leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Legs says we gotta pay Hardy again or we’re gonna get raided. Plus I heard Mook say he’s got a delivery of white lightning coming in next week that we want to be in on.”

“Why do you think fifty dollars will accomplish all that?”

Mickey frowned. “Well, see, I got a little here, and I thought . . .”

Lane grunted his disapproval. Mickey was a relatively new soldier, and a real amateur at that. Lane thought him more like a bee buzzing around his ear. “I’ll talk to Legs,” Lane said, effectively cutting Mickey out of the equation. He casually lifted the edge of his jacket so Mickey could see the gun hidden there.

“Oh. Thank you, sir.” Mickey moved to stand up, but then he settled back into his chair. “And Mook’s delivery?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Mickey slapped his hand on the table. “You’re darb. I owe you one.”

“Get out of here, Mickey.”

When Mickey had left, Lane raised his hand slightly. Timmy, one of Epstein’s runners, appeared at his side. “Get me Legs Aurelio. Then go find Callahan and ask if he knows anything about a shipment coming in next week.”

“You got it, boss.”

Timmy ran off, so Lane went back to contemplating his dinner. The soup was light and creamy, but Lane didn’t have much of an appetite, thinking now instead about cops and shipments, which he supposed was an improvement over thinking about Scott or poor, dead Jimmy Ribello. And still, he went back to trying to recall the details of Scott’s face, that look in his eye that had convinced Lane they should hop the train in Chicago that took them to New York. It was difficult to do; the finer parts of Scott’s features were faded like a blurry photograph from his memory.

Legs showed up then. Before he even opened his mouth, Lane said, “Did you send Mickey to ask me for fifty dollars?”

Legs’s eyes widened. “That idiot asked you for fifty rubes?” He sat, looking chastened. “No. Sorry, boss, but no, absolutely not. I told him to tell you that Hardy’s been making noise, and I’m thinking that if Epstein wants to get this new venture off the ground, I’m going to need to make arrangements.” He shook his head. “For a lot more than fifty dollars.”

“I figured.” Lane considered. “I don’t have much cash at hand, but let me talk to Epstein.”

“Great. Thanks, Carillo.”

“You know anything about a shipment coming in next week?”

“Mook said something about some rotgut coming in from one of the boats off the coast.” Legs leaned in and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I think it’s more of that hooey from New Jersey that tastes like formaldehyde. You can’t give that stuff away.”

Lane dismissed him. He rubbed his face and looked around the restaurant. At this time of night, nearly everyone in Lenny’s was affiliated with either Epstein or Giambino or Joe the Boss Masseria or someone else lurking in the shadows. Lane had, in fact, caught sight of Arnold Rothstein earlier in the evening, though he seemed to have moved on to somewhere else in the interim.

Epstein shooed away the man he was talking to, some flunky Lane recognized but couldn’t name. The flunky came over to Lane’s table and said, “Mr. Epstein wants to see you.”

Lane looked at his soup. He lifted the bowl to his mouth and intended to sip some but realized it had gone cold. He put it back on the table and stood up.

When he got to Epstein’s table, Epstein gestured for him to sit.

Lane sat and looked over Epstein. He was a corpulent man with dark hair streaked with silver and several extra chins. He looked very much like the well-fed fat cat he was, and his large size made him an imposing figure when he had to do business. Half the city was terrified of him, and Lane had to admit that he would never have wanted that dark gaze looking at him with disdain.

“Hello, Lane,” Epstein said cheerfully. “I see you’ve been doing business tonight. Is everything all right with you? Your dinner okay?”

“I’m fine, sir. I wasn’t very hungry tonight, but, you know, everything here is good.”

Epstein nodded. “Yes, well. What was your business?”

Lane sighed. “Well, we have to pay Officer Hardy. He’s making noises about raids again.”

“All right. What else?”

“Rumor has it that Mook has a shipment coming in from some rum runners, but it sounds like it’s tainted or not good. I don’t think it’s worth buying. Mook has never been reliable anyway.”

“I agree. Anything else?”

“No. Just that my soup got cold.”

Epstein chuckled. “That’s a damn shame. I’ll take care of Hardy. I have a different job for you.”

Lane had been expecting this for a while. Epstein had been dropping hints for weeks that he wanted Lane to do something related to his new business venture, but he’d been cagey about the details. “What is the job, sir?”

“As you know, I’m looking to open a new nightclub. I think you’d be in a unique position to run it.”

Lane frowned. “Run it, sir?” Lane wondered what his unique qualification was. Probably loyalty. He’d been working for the Giambino family, and Epstein specifically, for a long time now. He and Epstein were not exactly friends, but Epstein seemed to respect him. Lane had regrets about some of the things he’d done over the years, but the job meant he could continue to afford to live in his apartment on 26th Street, with Scott’s memories. “I don’t know anything more about running a nightclub than Legs Aurelio does.” And Aurelio, at least, had the advantage of being a close cousin of the Giambino family’s underboss.

Lane’s family connection was a little more tenuous. The Carillos were Sicilian, at least, which had been Lane’s ticket in when he’d needed a job, and he had a cousin who was a favored son. Yet much of
La Cosa Nostra
considered Lane an outsider, since he hadn’t run around with the gangs downtown in his younger days like everyone else had. Hell, even Epstein had once been a member of the Eastman gang and grown up on the same block as Carlo Giambino himself. Epstein was always doing special favors for his old friends, which was how he’d come to be an associate of the Giambino family, despite the fact that he had no Sicilian roots.

But Lane was good with money, kept a level head in a crisis, and, more to the point, had made it clear that anyone who dared call him a cocksucker would meet the same fate as Jimmy Ribello. He’d been working his way up the family leadership hierarchy ever since.

A smile spread across Epstein’s face slowly. “This is not just any club. I’m looking to fill a niche. One left open when such venerable establishments as Paresis Hall closed.”

Lane bit back a groan. It immediately became clear to him what Epstein was doing, and he wanted no part of it. He shook his head. “Sir, some of those clubs got shut down for a reason, and if you really think that—”

“This is a brilliant idea. And I want you to run it.”

“Why me, sir?” As if that weren’t obvious. Lane, of course, knew why he’d been chosen.

Epstein sat back and scratched his chins. “We’ve known each other a long time. I like you. I admit that the way you are, I don’t understand it. I love women. I love how they look, I love how their voices sound, and if I’m in a club, I want to be surrounded by beautiful women. But you. I know all about you, Carillo. And I know that you could find a way to make a club for men like you work.”

Lane looked at Epstein and wondered what would possess him to think such a thing. Surely Epstein knew that just because Lane had certain proclivities, it didn’t mean he could run a whole club on his own. “You realize you’re limiting your clientele.”

“A clientele not currently served by many other clubs in the city. I’ve looked around.”

Lane sank into the chair and contemplated the pros and cons of the offer. On the one hand, wasn’t this what he wanted? He’d been a little bored for a while, and this was an excellent opportunity. Running one of David Epstein’s nightclubs was certainly a step up. It was a chance to prove he deserved to be a
caporegime
. On the other hand, did he really want to be associated with a club that catered to queers? Would that be advertising his own queerness?

“How much control would I have?” Lane asked.

Epstein laughed. “I like how you think, Carillo.” He looked at the table for a brief moment. “You still report to me, and we run things my way, but you would have some discretion over the entertainment, and you’d be the person on hand to solve problems.”

Lane still wasn’t sure what to say. He stayed silent as he thought it over.

Epstein tapped the table to get his attention. “I’m surprised you’re this hesitant. I thought this project would be right up your alley. I know you go to places like the Hotel Astor bar. Mook told me he saw you there with a sailor. I know you’re a fag. Do I care? Not a whit. I don’t get it, but I believe in personal liberty, let’s say. Just as I should be able to make a dollar in the way I choose, so too should you be able to choose how you find your pleasure. Just like any man should be able to choose how he wishes to spend his time.”

“It’s not that I disagree . . .”

“You’re a smart fella, Carillo. You can do this job. I want you for it. And I am going to open this club with or without you, so you might as well take it. I can’t guarantee I’ve got anything else for you to do.”

Lane rubbed his forehead. “In other words, I take this job or I’m fired.”

“I did not say that.” Epstein’s face went hard and stern. “It is in your best interest to take the job, though.”

So there it was. Lane didn’t have much of a choice.

“Why are you holding out?” Epstein asked.

Lane struggled with the most succinct way to sum up how he was feeling. “Everyone will know, sir.”

Epstein furrowed his dark brow, but then he all of a sudden seemed to get it and his eyes widened. “They would know your secret.”

Some secret, though, if Lane’s boss already knew. Who else mattered? What jeopardy would come to him if the whole city knew he was queer? It’s not like he’d be arrested for indecency again. Epstein would protect him. That was the other advantage to being a member of this organization: the cops wouldn’t touch him.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

Epstein laughed. “Of course you will.”

Could he run a club? Did he want to? Lane shook his head. “Do I have any power over who works for me?”

“All right. Yes. You can choose which of these guys you want to work with you, although I want Legs in there, and Callahan.”

“To keep an eye on me.”

“Legs is dumb as a brick, but he’s good at what he does.” Epstein crossed his arms over his chest and scanned the room. “Callahan’s good with money. He’ll help you keep the joint open.”

Lane wanted to hold out for something else, but he nodded. “You have a name for this club yet?”

That slow grin spread across Epstein’s face again. “Of course! It will be called the Marigold Club.”

Lane should have known. It was a good name in many ways, but it sounded feminine. So Epstein intended for it to be a pansy bar, something that didn’t really appeal to Lane. It was a hard sell, for one. There were a dozen speakeasies in Harlem and Greenwich Village that catered to effeminate men and female impersonators and the like, so what reason would they have to come to Times Square? But Epstein’s opinion ruled, and there wasn’t much room for Lane to argue.

Also, Lane preferred his men masculine. Rough trade, as they called it, definitely appealed. It had been a while since Lane had been with a man. The last time the Navy had been in town was the last time Lane had gotten anywhere near sex. He’d met a bunch of sailors at the Hotel Astor bar and, yes, had taken one of them home with him.

“It’s a good name,” he said, trying to focus back on the issue at hand.

“I knew you’d approve.” Epstein looked smug. Lane thought him a clown in many ways, and it was hard to remember that this man controlled a substantial portion of the city. “I have a deal going with a man to keep the place wet. I’ll have him talk to you. Did you ever get that telephone installed in your apartment?”

“Yes, two weeks ago.”

“Good, good. We’re in business, then.”

They shook on it. Lane let Epstein talk his ear off for a while about details and then reminded him that something needed to be done about Al Hardy, a cop and self-appointed Volstead Act enforcement agent. Lane was pretty sure Hardy didn’t care about alcohol one way or the other, but he liked getting his palm greased.